Fear
by iamhere23
Summary: Neal's not afraid of a lot of things in life, but the fear of incarceration has been the one thing he's never been able to escape.


**AN:**This story is based on the comment made by Jeff Eastin where he mentioned the three things Neal is most afraid of: boredom, incarceration, and poverty. All mistakes are my own.

To those interested: I finished my other story, The Leap, and will update it as soon as it's revised.

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><p>One more line. One more day.<p>

One thousand three hundred seventy lines on the wall.

Ninety lines to go. Ninety lines left to be able to breathe again.

Ninety.

Ninety and he threw it away.

His first time in prison was shocking. He had never imaged it would be so tough. It felt like a tidal wave swept everything he was and forced him to rebuild. It was a good thing that he was so good at forging, at conning, at becoming someone else. It was probably the only thing that saved him. Neal adapted, he became another person. Prison Neal. If that's what it took, then that's who he'd be.

At night, after lights went out every day and he added one more line to his wall, he'd sit still in his bed and fight for control. It was harder than anything he'd done before. Trying to arrange his mask and keep it on, day after day, while he was there. In prison. Caged. Alone.

Nothing bad happened to him. Nothing serious to speak of, he was a master of manipulation after all… People were never the problem. It was inside of him. The urge. The need. He felt anxious and he felt empty. His body craved to move, to do, to think. He looked around his cell and stilled his shaking hands. It took time to train his body to relax and trick it into just being. It took even longer to trick his mind.

Ninety lines to go and confusion returned. The lines got muddled. Prison Neal could no longer exist. Kate said goodbye and a different need returned. He planned and escaped. He made a decision and didn't think about it twice.

Later, when he was sitting alone in an empty apartment talking to Peter Burke, what he'd done finally hit him. He tried to compose and adapt, tried to joke and pretend. He saw an opportunity and took a chance, the only chance left. It was the only ace left up his sleeve, but he'd use it. He had to. Four more years. One thousand four hundred and sixty lines on a wall.

"I don't care," he told Peter, laughing impetuously.

He cared. He didn't know if he'd stand even one more line on that wall. He was going back to prison and the fear was fighting to overtake him. He was afraid of that feeling. He was afraid of the entrapment, of the loneliness, of the monotony, the mundane, the sickeningly boring…

He was afraid of the all-consuming feeling of his soul trying to escape and burst out of his body.

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><p>During his second time in prison he tried to slip back into Prison Neal's skin. He lied on his bed at night, thinking. He asked Bobby kindly for more time with the light on. He got up and tried to draw that one more line on the wall, but he couldn't. He couldn't. The fear and the urge overwhelmed him. He lashed out, the lines in his mind and in the wall blending and blurring in the process. He leaned on the sink and fought it.<p>

He grabbed the pencil, turned to the other wall, and drew a line.

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><p>His third time in prison was easier than it had ever been. This time he was innocent. This time he hadn't let anyone down. He could handle it for a few days. He could do it, for just long enough to clear his name and get to Peter. Though he joked about sending him back, Peter wouldn't leave him there. Peter would make it alright once he knew the truth.<p>

He arranged everything for his escape. At night, he settled down on his bed and looked up. He did everything he could to avoid looking at the walls. He concentrated on his escape plan, on his life, on his innocence, on Fowler and on finding Kate, on everything except on the feeling and the memory of thousands of lines neatly arranged on the wall, each one sucking the life out of him.

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><p>The fourth time he was in prison didn't make much sense at first. He was aware of reassurances and promises made by Peter. He wouldn't be in there for long, he'd said. He would get him out as soon as possible, he'd said. It wasn't his fault, he'd said.<p>

Neal went through the familiar motions. He slipped into the role like you'd slip into a worn sweater you'd stopped using a while back, but had suddenly found again. He got up and functioned every day. Every night, after the nightmares, after the shortness of breath and the horror, he'd stare at his wall and he would let the feeling overcome him. He needed the pain. He needed the emptiness. He craved it, the urge to escape his body. He let his body fill with monotony and boredom and with anything that would just let him forget.

After he was out, when he'd slipped most of his masks back on, he wondered where those months in Prison had gone. He wondered if his life had just stopped and the absence of lines on a wall meant that those days had never happened at all.

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><p>It only took a small shake of the head and a look that said more than a thousand words. Neal ran. He ran as fast as he could. He climbed the stairs to his apartment two at a time and leaned against his door trying to make sense of it all. He didn't want to go, he didn't want to run, but Peter had given him leave. Peter knew something worse than running was waiting for him. Peter knew he wouldn't survive another prison. Peter trusted him enough to let him go.<p>

He trusted Peter.

He had taken one look at the Marshalls, at Kramer and Peter, and the fear tried to drown him. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't stand another cage. It would unmake him.

He sat down beside Mozzie and held back his tears. He was leaving his whole life behind. He was leaving the first place where he'd ever felt he belonged. He was running, but he wasn't going alone. He had Mozzie and he had Peter. And that meant that there were more people on his side now. That meant that he would never have to face the feeling and the fear again. Whatever happened, they'd make sure he wasn't taken away again.

Neal felt the sun hit his face and smiled.


End file.
